


but now i'm lost, so lost

by cornerstones



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coping, Depression, Five Stages of Grief, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Introspection, Introspection Thomas, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Post-The Death Cure, Safe Haven, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 21:10:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14505558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornerstones/pseuds/cornerstones
Summary: There were still people holding on to him, people who had been longest with him and kept close even now, for which he was grateful.But he didn't want to talk, he didn't need to talk.(because the only person he could talk to, who always listened to him, who stood by him through anything, was now –)-----Thomas is grieving.





	but now i'm lost, so lost

**Author's Note:**

> this is technically not exactly post tdc because it takes place before thomas reads newt's letter but the tag was close enough
> 
> TW/CW for panic attacks, depression, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt (nothing too graphic though but please stay safe <3)
> 
> (jfc this didn't feel as dark while writing it as it now felt like when i was working on the tags)
> 
> i don't own any of the characters, this is a work of fiction, any resemblance is accidental etc etc etc you name it
> 
> title taken from the song "forest fire" by brighton

I.

Thomas forbade himself from thinking about what was his reality now, or more precisely, who was missing from it. He refused to actually say the words that he knew would crush him even more with their biting finality, so he did the only thing that would stop the inevitable from happening – he repressed what he could.

He made sure to steer away from people throwing him meaningful glances as he kept his eyes surely away from the giant rock that Vince and the others had put up by the beach. As a result he became somewhat antisocial which was just fine by him, social skills were never really his forte anyway.

(no, that had always been – but he was not –)

Thomas often found himself rubbing his temples or pulling his hair to stop his thoughts from going there, because he knew as soon as he would go there, there would be no going back from it, from the pain, from the memories.

There were still people holding on to him, people who had been longest with him and who kept close to him even now. Minho, Frypan, Brenda, Jorge, hell, even Gally, they all made sure to take care of him, each in their own way and some times they kept him from getting lost in his head too much for which he was grateful.

The only problem though was that his friends didn't seem to have the same idea about how to deal with what they had lost ( _who_ they had lost) as he slowly came to realize. And after a while they seemed to have decided that they would no longer let him isolate himself from the group more often than not when they were not busy building their new life.

Thomas disliked distancing himself from his people but he saw it as his only option to not have to talk about everything that happened on their way to the Safe Haven. So he made sure to stay occupied by constructing anything really that they needed to make themselves more at home and to stay away from his friends when they gave him a certain look. He didn't want to talk, he didn't _need_ to talk.

(because the only person he could talk to, who'd always listened to him, who'd stood by him through anything, was now –)

For the most part, his friends let him be, so he could ignore the resigned look on their faces when he turned away from them once again and instead searched for anything that needed repairing or constructing. He should have figured out though that not all of his friends were willing to just let Thomas stay in his stupor while the rest of the group was (slowly, very slowly) moving on.

Which led to Thomas almost letting out a yelp when he entered his hut to – yet again – get away from the laughing crowd sitting by a big fire one night and found Minho sitting on his bed, evidently waiting for him.

“Okay. You had your time, shank. Now you talk.”

Minho's words triggered a flight or fight reflex within Thomas and his legs seemed to move on their own accord but his friend obviously expected as much because he suddenly found his exit blocked.

“Thought you were tired of running.”

Thomas found himself at a loss how to respond to that; even more so he felt a prickling sensation that screamed “panic” starting at the back of his skull that quickly spread throughout his entire body. No words could be formed, only low, unintelligible stuttered syllables came out of his mouth, to which Minho responded with a sigh: “Look, I know this is hard. This is hard for all of us. We all lost... people. But there're still some of us left. And we can all relate, you shouldn't think you gotta do this on your own.”

Thomas gritted his teeth and looked anywhere but at his friend. He desperately wished he could just slip away from this conversation, leave his own hut, find a place by the bay where he could rest for the night. But he knew his friend wouldn't let him pass now, not when his mind was set like it was in that moment. Breathing got harder.

“You gotta open up, man, let yourself grieve and process what happened.”

( _So we can't give up._ You _can't give up. I won't let you._ )

He felt his throat close up.

“I'm tired of you turning away from us. _They_ wouldn't want us to live like that, now that we made it.“

( _A lot of our friends died for us to get this far._ )

His head was spinning, made him dizzy and he balled his hands into fists, bit his lower lip, anything to distract him from his friend's words and his own growing nausea.

“Come on, we've been through all this together, just talk to me!”

( _Well we started this together. May as well end it that way too._ )

He could hear his heartbeat hammering uncomfortably in his ears and he felt as if he was suffocating.

“For god's sake, talk to me, Tommy!”

( _Tommy._ )

Thomas suddenly heard someone screaming and watched as Minho stumbled backwards and fell to the ground, bewilderment clearly written on his face. The screaming continued, and it took Thomas a few seconds until he realised that it was him who shouted at his friend to get out, who had grabbed him by the shirt and had shoved him till he found himself on the ground.

He stopped and looked down at his hands which were shaking uncontrollably and then risked a glance at Minho, who was still on the floor, looking up at Thomas with so much pain and pity in his eyes, he could only imagine what a sight he must be right then.

He only managed to choke out an “I'm sorry” and made a dash for the entrance to his hut, running out into the dark and leaving all the lights of their homestead behind. The tears which were steadily rising in his eyes made his vision blurry but he only wanted to get out. He needed to be alone. He needed to scream.

 

II.

He screamed himself hoarse that night.

He ran deep into the woods where he knew most likely nobody would go, especially not in the middle of the night when there was still a fire going and food passed around. Where he couldn't stand to be. Instead he walked in restless laps around a group of big trees and grabbed what he could, stones and branches, to jam them into the ground, the bark, the air.

He was just filled with so much... rage. Uncontrollable, unbearable rage, like Thomas had never known before. After all that had happened to him, this was filling Thomas with so much anger, he felt as if he were fully consumed by it.

So even when he got back to their camp later in the morning, not having slept a wink, and went straight to their most current construction site, he still felt his body slightly trembling. Not looking at anyone, he started to work. The people around him quickly caught on the vibe he was giving out and stayed mostly away from him. If someone actually spoke to him, he communicated with grunts and monosyllabic sentences because he didn't dare to speak, knowing he would snap at anything right now.

But after all, something's gotta give. In this case it was Vince, who placed a hand on his shoulder to stop him from hacking away on yet another piece of wood that needed to be shortened for a new hut. The hand on his quivering shoulder Thomas could have ignored, but then Vince said: “That's enough for now, Thomas. It's time for lunch, give that blade a little break.”

With a start, he let go of the knife, having a sudden and entirely unbearable flashback for a second.

(no, no, this blade was different, this one was bigger, longer, it was nothing like –)

“Shut your goddamn mouth, you don't know what the hell you're talking about!”

Vince looked quite shellshocked when Thomas slapped his hand away and shouted at him and he quickly raised both his hands in a non-threatening manner: “Woah woah, just wanted you to take a breather there, kid.”

It did nothing to placate Thomas, even though he knew that Vince didn't mean to aggravate him. Gritting his teeth, he replied “whatever”, and stormed off, heading straight to his hut.

He didn't need a breather, he was fine. That was just the problem. _He_ was fine.

While he was walking quickly towards his place, he started rubbing his right arm, just above the wrist, before digging his nails into the flesh – not unlike Ben did to him when he attacked him back in the Glade. It seemed like lifetimes ago now.

The phantom pain was more and more replaced by the actual pain he was causing himself that made Thomas breathe a bit easier. It grounded him, made him think of not easier times, but maybe simpler, more hopeful times. Those were painful memories nonetheless, but everything seemed more bearable than the reality he was living in now.

He felt eyes on him and looked up involuntarily, catching the worried gazes of Brenda and Frypan, who looked unsure about what to make of his behaviour. But they couldn't understand, could they. They hadn't been there when – they hadn't experienced how – there were only two people in the world who actually _knew_ what had happened and now one of them was –

Thomas felt like screaming again. Instead he rushed through the light curtains and crashed onto his mattress, choking out a sob, his breathing coming out irregularly. He tried taking deep breaths which only ended up in cut off sobs. Grabbing his pillow, he hid his face in the slightly rough material and curled himself around it. He hated everything.

No matter what he did, his anger didn't cease. He could not find joy in anything, didn't want to feel happy or even content, because deep in his heart he was feeling that he didn't deserve any of it when not everyone –

He just didn't deserve anything good that was now in his reach. Not when the world was so unfair, when the one who deserved it the most was –

The frustration kept on growing inside of him until he felt angry basically all of the time and he spent days constantly feeling exhausted and infinitely restless with no real outlet except for irrational outbursts every now and then for which he instantly felt horrible every time. That still didn't mean that he could control his aggressive fits, he only managed to rein them in, to bite his tongue and just leave the situation altogether. People grew wary around him and not only steered clear of him, they also spoke less and less to him. Not that Thomas was particularly bothered about this, at least that meant that he wouldn't inadvertently hurt someone.

(not again, oh please, not again –)

That didn't mean though that he didn't hear that people were talking _about_ him. One day he caught two people whose names he didn't know – never had bothered to learn, really – talking quietly while working, seemingly not having noticed him being there.

“Seriously, what is wrong with the guy? He's so outta control, he's gonna hurt someone sooner or later.”

“Yeah, I don't know,” came the reply. “Wasn't he the one to make it into the Last City? Thought he'd be some sort of Immune Royalty by now.”

“Yeah yeah, heroic tendencies aside, if I didn't know better, I'd think he was a Crank with the way he's been lashing out.”

 _Crank_. That was what he should be. He didn't deserve to be immune, not when others hadn't –

(not _others_ , though, was it, but _him_ , always him –)

He turned away from the strangers and marched along the waves till he found a constellation of rocks he could climb on. Nothing tired him out though and he could practically sense the flaming hatred inside his veins. He didn't care if WCKD had been good, if their intentions had been well-meant, all he could think was how unbelievably _unfair_ everything was.

He'd never asked to be special, to play a key role in this whole messed up scheme, he only wanted to save his friends and he had failed. He had tried everything, done everything in his power, and it just hadn't been enough. He just hadn't been fast enough. Bile rose in the back of his throat at the thought that he actually could have – there actually _had_ been the possibility to – but he had still failed.

Thomas had never felt as much hatred and anger and _disappointment_ towards anyone as he did towards himself now. He could blame Ava Paige and Janson and the whole of WCKD all he wanted, but in the end it was him, wasn't it. It was him who had failed, who hadn't been fast enough, who hadn't been good enough.

He couldn't breathe anymore and his eyes were unfocused, turning the world around him into an undistinguished blur of colors. As much as he tried, his lungs just wouldn't fill with oxygen and his body grew very heavy suddenly, making his knees go weak so that he crashed to the ground. With his fall he scraped his knees and palms but he didn't feel anything, he was too occupied by trying to gulp in air desperately.

He knew nobody was able see him like that because he was hidden from view on the clearing atop of the rocks but he honestly wouldn't have cared if they did. He probably would be comforted by his closest friends at least, people would have pity on him. But he wouldn't deserve that; he didn't deserve other people being worried about him, taking care of him, telling him it would be okay – because it could just never be, did they not see that it could never be okay, how he wasn't allowed to feel –

“Oh god, Thomas!”

Hands were suddenly on him, gripping his shoulders to hold him somewhat upright. A face slowly came into focus and Thomas recognised Minho, looking at him with a worried expression written all over his features.

“Come on, man, you gotta breathe.”

“C..can't...” He tried but his body felt too overwhelmed to function properly. Only when his vision got blurry again did Thomas realise that tears were gathering in his eyes, threatening to spill over at every moment but for some reason, they just wouldn't fall down his cheeks.

“Come on, just... match my breathing, c'mon you can do this.” Minho tried putting one of Thomas's hands on his chest but all of a sudden he was taken back to the last time he had touched someone like that and with a yelp he snatched his hand back. The still not fully healed wound on his own chest pained him.

“Please, you can do this,” his friend's strained voice reached his ears and brought him back again.

Thomas wanted to apologize, wanted to tell his friend to not worry about him, to tell him he shouldn't have to put up with him. What he said instead was: “He's gone...”

He felt Minho stop moving for a few seconds, before wrapping his arms around him in a hug that Thomas couldn't reciprocate. “Thomas...”

“He's gone. He's... he's gone. He's not coming back. I need him to come back. I need him to...” Now that he had said it out loud, he couldn't seem to stop himself and slumped against Minho, the fight gone from his strained muscles and his no longer concealed sobs wrecking his body.

The person he had been closest to was dead.

 

III.

For all the words he hadn't been able to vocalise, Thomas now more than made up for it but all that was coming out of his mouth were different variations of the same phrase, the same plea.

“Please, please I need him back, I can't... I just need him to come back...”

His friends were at a loss how to help him other than staying with him and holding him close whenever his shaking got too bad. He barely left his hut, too weak to stand up and walk around for too long. If anybody outside his friends noticed that he hadn't been present the last couple of days, his friends didn't mention it to him. Not that he could care about something trivial like that right now anyway.

It also didn't matter how many times his friends tried to tell him, to reassure him, that he'd done what he could, that he had tried anything in his power, their words just wouldn't reach him.

“I could have done it, I could have... if I just hadn't been so goddamn stubborn, if I had only listened-"

“No, Thomas.” Frypan's gentle voice interrupted him: “You did everything you could, man. He knew that. You gotta stop blaming yourself. He wouldn't want that.”

“Don't say that like he's-” He stopped himself there. _Like he's dead_. But he was.

Frypan only sighed softly and put a hand on Thomas's shoulder because they had all been there. They had all talked about him as if he actually was still with them, healthy and breathing and alive.

“I would do anything to get him back,” Thomas said after a moment, his quiet voice cracking at the last syllables.

“I know, man... believe me, we all would.” Fry's own grief was so blatant in those words; as bad as he felt about it, Thomas sometimes forgot he wasn't the only one still feeling the loss of their friend. Yet he couldn't offer Fry or any other of his friends any sort of comfort like they did to him, even though he was aware that he was being selfish in a way.

But, ironically, his friends who were trying so hard to be there for him and help him, often reminded Thomas too much of _him_. He'd left his mark on all of them and his influence was so palpable to Thomas that he couldn't stand it at the worst of times.

After Frypan had left him alone so that they both could catch some sleep, he couldn't bring himself to stop thinking about what he had said.

 _I would do anything to get him back_.

He meant it. He needed him back so badly, he caught himself begging to whatever entity might be out there to get a second chance, to only get a few more seconds that time, just to get it right.

 _I would do anything to get him back_.

But wasn't he the one with “the gift”, as Janson had called it? An unwanted one, sure, but a gift nonetheless. That had to mean something more, hadn't it, he had to be some sort of special and to be able to do something that was of importance. If he was indeed gifted, he had to be able to use that somehow, to really make a change. Maybe he could even change –

_I would do anything to get him back._

Thoughts were whirring frantically through his mind until he felt dizzy but even so a weird sense of determination spread out within him. In a frenzy, he made to stand up from his cot and got tangled up in the sheets slightly. In his haste he almost knocked over the stool stood at his bedside and he spared a glance at it to make sure nothing fell off.

Noting that everything was still in place, he averted his eyes quickly so that he could go back to studiously ignoring the string with its pendant lying there, still untouched since Minho had returned it to him the first night he'd been awake in the Safe Haven. He could just not go back to that memory.

Soon enough he was rushing over to their makeshift “hospital”, which was basically a slightly bigger hut that contained the only medical kits and instruments that had survived their trip to the Safe Haven with them. Not thinking about if it was occupied at the moment, Thomas barged inside and made a beeline for the little station full of medical supplies.

He was so focused on rummaging through the drawers that he hadn't noticed he had company.

“What are you looking for exactly?”

With a start, he turned around to notice Gally standing there on the other side of the room.

“Just... just looking for something... what are _you_ doing here?” Thomas tried to divert the conversation, albeit a weak try, he knew.

“Had to get some new bandages for two of the builders, hurt themselves today.”

Distractedly, he nodded and turned back around to focus once more on the task at hand.

“So again, what are you looking for?”

“Nothing, just let me...” Gally's suspicious tone didn't help Thomas's already frantic mind and he wished he would just leave so that he could go on with his plan, undisturbed.

“...Greenie?”

There. In one of the lowest drawers he found a few unused injections in which he could fit in certain glass vials, of which he had one, filled up, in his possession. He was about to lay some of them out on a table when he got stopped by Gally gripping his arm: “Thomas. What are you doing?”

“Just let go of me, I need to do this.”

Instead the grip on his arm only tightened a fraction. “I'm not gonna let you run off with medical supplies – of which we have not many to begin with – for god knows what until you give me a good reason.”

“Gally, let go of me!”

He kept frowning at him, confusion and determination clearly shown on his face, and Thomas lost his patience quickly.

“Goddammit, let me go, I have to-”

“What do you have to do, Thomas?”

“I have to try at least! Let me just try this!”

“Try what?”

“It's me!” Thomas shouted. “It's me, I am the cure! You heard her, you heard Teresa in the Last City. So just let me try this, okay, I have to try it!”

He had to take his eyes off of Gally because he couldn't handle the confused concern with which his friend regarded him now.

After a moment, he asked him slowly: “What do you have to try?”

Thomas's hand, still holding the injections, started shaking and he kept his eyes locked on the ground. He took a few breaths to try and regulate his breathing a bit more before answering in a quiet voice: “My... my blood. Or something in it, I don't know, it... it kills the virus, right? It kills the Flare. So if I could just... if I could just- _find_ _him_ , maybe I can...”

As his voice trailed off, the hand still on his arm slackened its grip. Gally took a second to say anything in return.

“Thomas, that's... it won't work.”

“I know it's gonna be hard, I know there's only a slim chance but-”

“It's not hard, Thomas, it's impossible.” Even though his friend's words were harsh, his tone was anything but. His own grief was so palpable, Thomas flinched. “You can't bring someone back from the dead. Not even someone as stupidly stubborn as you.”

He had to close his eyes then, not at the insult because he knew it wasn't meant as one, not really. But he could just imagine _him_ saying something exactly along those lines as well if he had been here. In fact, he could hear fond reprimands like that loud and clearly in his head, as if he stood right before him, and it was agony.

( _Now, don't be a twat about it._ )

“I have to try,” he managed to croak out. He heard his own voice cracking but he couldn't care about that. “I have to make sure I did anything I could to- to save him. I need to save him.”

The hand on his arm settled on his shoulder instead. “Thomas...”

“Please, I need to- I need to get him back. Please...”

Slowly, Gally took the injections out of his hands. He let it happen. He knew his plan was a half-baked disaster, if you could even call it a plan. But still, he found himself begging in broken whispers to let him try, to let him at least _try_.

Gally let him talk it out and only tried to offer his silent comfort because he knew telling him how impossible his idea was wouldn't reach him right now. So he listened to him beg, listened to him bargain, listened to him talk himself into a stupor. Which was when he carefully guided Thomas back to his hut and into bed and waited there till the boy finally fell into a fitful sleep.

 

IV.

Thomas found that existing in a constant state of _what if what if what if_ didn't hurt nearly as much as the resolute and unbendable reality of _this is how it is and you can't do anything about it_.

A clear sense of _there is is nothing you can do_ kept ringing inside his head and made him feel utterly helpless. He'd always been used to do something, to somehow against all odds keep moving and try to change what's wrong; to escape, to save. But he finally reached a point where he could not do anything. He'd always had a goal, or at least an inkling of that, in his mind to work toward to until now and he found himself... useless.

His last mission, his last goal had been to rescue Minho and he had achieved that and that should have given him some sense of happiness and it did but –

He never thought whatever's out there might have been so cruel to him to make him trade one friend for another, not after everything they had had endured together.

But maybe... Maybe this should have been the plan all along. They'd gotten Minho out, hadn't they? And twenty-eight other immunes and they were all safe now, they'd rescued them all from experiments on their minds and bodies to give them the chance of a happy life, a secure life. There were so many of them here who no longer just had to survive, they now could live. So many immunes. So who really cared if it was maybe one person less.

Thomas spent most hours in his hut, lying on his cot and staring at the ceiling. He was all too aware that he made no effort to integrate himself by not going outside or talking to anyone really.

Even the fact that he had his own hut to disappear into secluded him from the others since most of them decided to sleep out in the open, huddled close to each other. He knew his friends did so but he was secretly glad they'd never asked him to change his sleeping arrangements; he still woke himself up from nightmares by screaming or thrashing around almost every night and wouldn't want anyone to lose their sleep over him.

They were at peace, or rather they were slowly getting there, and nobody needed Thomas to disturb that.

So Thomas just kept to himself, stared silently at the ceiling. His mind was blank but at the same time overrun by the sheer weight of everything. He sometimes caught himself holding onto his arm, inspecting it time and time again and never finding dark, protruding veins to confirm he was actually going crazy in his apathy. He might as well be, he thought.

Every time his fingers found their way to the wound on his chest and felt the rough scab over it, he would peel it off, stop its process of healing. He never again wanted to think about how he had gotten that wound. So of course his thoughts circled back to that all the time. He deserved this scar. He wanted to keep it. If he couldn't have kept anything else, he wanted to keep this. _He_ gave it to him, after all.

But he wanted to forget so badly. Nothing going on around him seemed to be able to affect him in any way, it was as if everything happening around him happened through a thick gray haze. He could watch, but only from afar, never interfering, never really wanting to. Nothing could touch him, nothing felt real to him, except for his memories.

Thomas thought he had known how it felt to be lost, after all he had experienced it first in the Glade and then in the Scorch; yet he'd never thought it'd feel like _this_.

( _We've been lost before._ )

He shut his eyes tightly against the memory. How many times had he been close to losing himself like this. He didn't even dare to put a number on it.

But all those countless times _he_ had been there, hadn't he. He had always brought him back, he had always made sure that Thomas knew he could rely on him, that he would be there to hold him upright whenever he stumbled or felt like giving in to the weight of it all. He had always been there, had always been what Thomas had needed.

And the one time it had been his turn, to be whatever he'd needed, to keep him for once from losing himself –

This time, _he_ had stumbled and fallen and all Thomas had been able to do was catch him before his body could hit the ground.

He had always followed him, no matter how flawed or reckless his plan had been. Perhaps, for once, he found himself thinking, Thomas should follow him.

They made it, after all, they were safe. No more fear and no more running. Thomas had done his part. He was done.

He felt weirdly calm in that moment, not at peace exactly, but nevertheless an odd sense of resolve settled over him. With it came a newfound though still shaky surge of energy, which made Thomas sit up and get off his bed, grabbing the long ignored necklace from his nightstand at the same time.

He had no longer an accurate perception of time, had no idea just how long he'd spent in his hut mostly alone, so he didn't spare a thought to what time of the day it was as he walked outside. He walked along the beach for a bit but he didn't take in the scenery around him at all. Instead he was making his way towards the mountains with steady steps.

No memories clouded his mind for once; in his head resounded a clear flow of _this is right this is good._ And he truly felt like it.

As he climbed the closest and steepest constellation of rocks he could find to reach a somewhat even albeit smallish plateau he couldn't help but feel a certain sense of contentment, of doing something worthwhile again, something to finally ease the seemingly never-ending pain. From where he stood he could take in the bold cliff on the other side of the plateau, waves crashing against the hard surface down below. The sound was soothing to him, it was bearing the sense of finality, and peace.

Breathing in the salty air, Thomas sat down, his feet dangling over the edge of the cliff, and stared down at the blue waves breaking against the dark, unforgiving rocks there. Those crashing noises sounded all too inviting to his ears. This was a good place, he decided. It all felt right in that moment.

He closed his eyes and brought the hand holding the necklace up to his face, pressing the now warmed up metal against his lips. Inhaled. Exhaled.

 _I'm coming for you,_ Thomas thought.

Arms encircled his torso from behind with a fierceness that made Thomas halt and falter in the tilting motion of his body. His eyes had opened in shock, couldn't believe for a moment that it had been this quick – when a low voice suddenly sounded next to his ear.

“Don't you _dare_.”

Brenda's voice was firm, even commanding, and left no room for arguments, so Thomas found himself shuffling backwards quickly, more out of reflex than actually consciously making the decision. Her arms didn't leave him just yet and he felt her take a deep breath before loosening her tight hold on him.

As he made to get up slowly, she leaned away from him, getting on her feet as well.

“Thought you were done doing reckless shit on your own.” She made it sound as if she was joking but when he glanced at her, he saw that her face betrayed her tone. In her eyes was a wariness that Thomas had witnessed once before, in a broken city that was burning, with a broken boy at his feet.

She didn't trust his actions then, and she clearly didn't trust them now.

He dusted himself off with his free hand and kept his eyes locked on the ground. His mind finally caught up with what was happening, what he had been about to do. He didn't know if he was irritated about being stopped from going through with it or if he was glad, but he did know that he felt a sudden pang of guilt.

Brenda regarded him with infinite sadness and desperation in her eyes and he immediately thought of Minho. Of Frypan. Of Brenda and Jorge. Gally. Aris. All of them.

What would it have meant to them? If Brenda hadn't been there in that moment, would it have been just like he disappeared? Or would they have been able to find him? Would it have been Minho? Thomas tried to imagine how Minho would've felt had it been him, finding a friend again who couldn't manage to go on on his own. Going through that again.

“Thomas...”

The sound of Brenda's low voice made him look up at her again but he noticed that she wasn't looking back at him. He followed her gaze and saw her eyes were focused on his hand holding the necklace. His knuckles were almost white. He hadn't realised he had fastened his grip on it.

“I'm sorry.”

Not having anticipated that, Thomas looked up once more, her eyes now boring into his with pained sincerity.

“For what?”

She took a measured breath and despite the pain in her eyes, her tone remained firm but soft: “I'm sorry I wasn't fast enough for him.” After another quick look at the necklace she added: “For both of you.”

There was a sudden lump in his throat that he couldn't get rid of. Brenda's words reminded him not only of the night he would much rather not be able to recall in such vivid detail –

(then again, those hated memories were at the same time the very last moments he'd seen him, the very last moments of him being alive, breaking through the virus eating away at his brain for only a few seconds at a time, enough to call out to him, enough to call him _Tommy_ –)

But he was also reminded that his friends were hurting over their guilt as well, over feeling like having failed him when he had needed them most. But as much as Thomas understood that, and god did he understand, he knew that his friends didn't deserve to feel guilty, not after they'd been fighting for so long to reach something that could give them the chance to have something resembling a home.

He shook his head slightly, disagreeing with a raspy voice: “It wasn't your fault.”

They stood there staring at each other for a few long moments. Thomas let his thumb run over the necklace. Wishing for his guidance, for some sort of support only he could give him. That only he had always been willing to give him.

“He wouldn't blame you,” he said and knew with certainty that it was true.

A sad smile tugged at her lips at that and Thomas wasn't prepared to hear her say: “He wouldn't blame you either.”

He ducked his head quickly and closed his eyes at the tears welling up all of a sudden.

She was right, he knew she was right, but he refused to let himself believe it for even just a second. Even if those words were coming from the one person he would always believe and trust like no other, Thomas wouldn't be able to accept them.

He tried to stifle that inner onslaught of emotion and to regain at least some sort of composure when he felt Brenda gently placing a hand on his arm. He looked up at her through unshed tears and only saw sympathy in her eyes.

“C'mon. Let's go back,” she said kindly.

Thomas nodded and they slowly made their back to the Homestead.

 

V.

The days still kind of blurred together and Thomas did not always feel like he was completely there. Reality still felt strangely foggy and distant to him sometimes, as if he was stuck in a dream – a nightmare? – he couldn't quite manage to get out of.

He did try though to leave his hut more often than before and to be some kind of part of their group, even if he kept mostly to his friends. They had stopped doing their best to push Thomas out of his state and instead started to just let him be and were always prepared to accept him amongst their midst whenever he could join them.

Thomas was sure Brenda must have had told them something about that day on the cliff because he noticed that his friends now treated him even more carefully than they used to before. He almost felt annoyed by it at times but instead he tried to focus on how grateful he was to them for giving him space and trying to care for him when they got together. They were the only family he had ever known, after all.

The nightmares still kept coming almost every single night Thomas found some sleep. He always felt drained on the mornings after the more intense ones but having his friends around helped him to pull out of them mostly.

But then there suddenly was one night after an unspectacular, rather ordinary day, after Thomas had dreaded falling asleep because he didn't want to know which images awaited him in his sleep, that he didn't have dreams filled with horror. No, in that night he dreamed of walking along the shore, looking out at the sea and feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin. The back of his hand kept brushing against another's and he could hear the other person's light chuckle as they took in the view. Thomas turned to his side to look at his companion.

And there he was.

A beautiful blond boy whose dark eyes shone brightly as he breathed in the warm air, a gentle smile playing around his lips. They stood close to each other, as they should be, because only that was how the world could feel right to Thomas; it was the only way for him to feel safe and anchored. Their hands brushed again. They locked their eyes on each other. They shared a smile with no more darkness weighing them down.

Thomas woke up with the sight of dark brown eyes looking back at him still on the forefront of his mind and the corners of his mouth were still turned up slightly in a small, content smile. In the distance he could hear the faint sounds of crashing waves and he could feel the sun on his face where it shone through the cracks in his hut.

He opened his eyes slowly and the first thing they focused on was the necklace lying on top of the stool right next to his cot.

And suddenly, like that, reality finally caught up with him like a cold splash of water. He didn't register the warm sunlight on his skin anymore, it felt unwelcome now. He didn't leave his hut until it was dark outside. And even then, he didn't really feel himself, not for a few days after that.

In some ways – most ways, really – did that dream hurt even more than his usual horrifying nightmares. It hurt to have a glimpse of happiness, of what could have been, of what he didn't deserve.

Surprisingly, it was Gally who helped him the most during those days because he gave him tasks to complete and actually made him do it. Only little things to expand their Homestead, but it was something to keep his hands and mind occupied for which Thomas was grateful.

He found himself even more grateful to Gally for still sort of acting the same with him and not making it too obvious that he was being handled with care. It still wasn't the most solid friendship between them, but it was a friendship nonetheless, which wasn't something Thomas could have imagined back in the Glade. Even in the Last City. Really, if it hadn't been for –

( _The most important thing is that we all have each other._ )

Thomas grasped the necklace. He took to wearing it around his neck now but mostly kept it under his shirt. It was something to hold on to when he felt himself slipping away again because feeling it in his hand and tracing its ridges with his thumb helped grounding him a bit.

He was sitting away from the fire and everyone else after dinner one night, but was still surrounded by the indistinct chatter and laughter coming from the others, and looked out on the water. He only noticed he was fiddling with the pendant again when Minho took a seat next to him and he caught his somber eyes fixated on his hand around the necklace.

It confused Thomas until Minho said lowly: “You know he was doing that too... when we were trying to get out of the city...”

Thomas's restless fingers stopped in their action and he looked at his friend with wide eyes.

“Every time we would rest, even for just a moment, he held on to it. He wanted to give it to you so, I don't know... maybe you grounded him, that way. Kept him from slipping away.”

His hand started trembling, so he put the necklace back under his shirt roughly. The cord scratched over the sensitive skin over his wound.

“I have to admit at first I was kinda mad at you for putting her name on the stone.”

Frowning, he looked back at Minho. He felt like he might be getting whiplash from his friend changing the direction of their conversation like that.

“Don't worry, I got over that. And I understand her, I think. Can't forgive her for what she's done but. I guess I get why she did it.”

“Yeah, me too,” Thomas agreed quietly. “I'm sorry for what they did to you.” He had said it before but he felt the need to repeat himself. He would probably always feel guilty about the fact that they had taken so long to get their friend out.

Minho grabbed his shoulder and let his hand rest there for a moment, and it felt strangely a lot like forgiveness.

“You know what I realized? You never told me about your side of things.” Seeing Thomas's confused frown, he clarified, “during all those months. Before you got me out. You never really talked about what you were up to.”

It was true; while Minho had opened up a bit over time about WCKD's tests on him and the torture he had gone through, Thomas had never thought to talk about their time without Minho and the others around.

In hindsight it had felt like they were going through a lot of fast paced periods of time made out of rapid actions which had been intersected by slow and quiet moments here and there in between. Those had usually been full of restlessness and guilt because they couldn't do anything _right now_.

But there had been tenderness, too. Quiet nights where they had been unable to sleep and instead stayed up together to simply talk for long hours. None of which Thomas could actually talk about out loud because the pain was still all too present.

(pain that would probably stay forever that way since the person who caused that was not present anymore, would never be again, because he was –)

It must have shown on his face apparently, and his friend took notice: “How come you can talk about Teresa but every time I mention anything to do with _him_ , you...”

He trailed off but his bemused and hurt voice kept ringing in Thomas's head. The lump in his throat was back but Thomas knew that he at least deserved some kind of explanation, so he willed himself to speak. His voice sounded weak even to his own ears: “It's different. It's...” He closed his eyes and tried to take an even breath. “Teresa and I... we got closure.”

More words didn't come out immediately and Minho seemed to get it anyway but no, his friend needed more from him.

“He... he told me about his leg,” he continued after another breath. Thomas didn't know exactly why he said _that_ and he could feel his friend's shocked expression at the admission. He didn't dare to look him in the eyes for what he was about to say, but at the same time he knew Minho wanted him to open up, wanted to be able to talk with the friends he still got left.

“He told me he had felt empty. How he'd felt like something had been missing and... I think I understand that. Now.”

After a moment, Thomas could feel Minho was about to say something and he closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting the consolation he knew his friend would try and give to him.

“I was scared 'bout him. Even though I knew he was strong and kept it together for us.” There was an old, lingering pain in his tired voice. “Every day he kept on leading us and made an effort to live but... I think when you turned up, he actually _wanted_ to live again.”

Thomas's trembling hand grabbed the necklace through the fabric of his shirt.

“Would be nice if he could return that favour now,” he replied in a quiet, breathy voice.

A few long moments passed between them with no words exchanged. Both were too occupied with the overwhelming feeling of missing their best friend.

“This isn't easy for me too, y'know,” Minho admitted almost hesitantly.

Thomas kept his eyes fixated on the pebbles scattered around his feet and nodded: “Yeah, I know... You've known each other for years... I never thought it would be easy for you.”

His friend heaved a breath: “Look, I know I hadn't been 'round for those months but I know that you... I mean, of course you would... gravitate towards each other. You were like that from the beginning. And from what Fry and the others told me... shit, I mean even _Gally_ mentioned it and I'm just...”

Thomas listened to his friend fumble for words. Not knowing what it was that he wanted to tell him, he looked back at him and frowned in confusion: “...what do you mean?”

He watched him lower his eyes for a prolonged second, eyebrows drawn together, before Minho glanced up again and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“I'll tell you when you're older.”

Though he tried to keep his tone light and joking, his voice wavered, and the tears in the corners of his eyes contradicted his put on smirk. With another soft pat to his back, Minho stood up and walked away, leaving Thomas on his own again.

He felt like he hadn't exactly been in the loop for most of their conversation and wasn't sure how his friend might've wanted him to react, what he'd expected from him.

Mostly though he found himself longing to hear an amused yet fond chuckle next to him, to feel a steady hand being put on his shoulder, to hear a soft-spoken boy telling him what he'd just missed with endless warmth in his voice.

But all that was left with him was the necklace. With careful movements Thomas took it off his neck and placed the metal pendant in the palm of his hand, wrapping the cord around his fingers.

For the first time he dared to look at it, to really look at it and see it for what it was. His best friend had been begging him to take it, he'd desperately wanted Thomas to have it in that moment, for whatever inexplicable reason.

( _Please, Tommy. Please..._ )

He didn't know for how long he'd been carrying it with him until he'd decided to give it to Thomas. But he must've had a reason. Something about that necklace had to be –

Tracing the by now familiar shape with his thumb again, he suddenly had the idea to –

And suddenly, with a slight twist and a pull on one end, the cap came off.

What seemed like folded and rolled up paper, done so meticulously so that it would fit inside the pendant, protruded from its metal case and Thomas pulled at it, almost as if in some kind of trance.

His heart was hammering inside his chest. He unfolded the two pages carefully and took in the neat handwriting and the words “ _Dear Thomas_ ” on top of the first page.

It couldn't be.

Glimpsing at the name signed at the very bottom of the last page, Thomas felt like all the air was drenched out of his lungs and he had to look away quickly.

This was for him. _He_ had written those words solely for him. And now they were going to be the last words he would ever receive from him. Thomas nearly felt dizzy but he gently unfolded the pages once more and he felt his world shifting and narrowed down to only the words in front of his eyes.

He started reading.

 

 

> _Dear Thomas,_
> 
> _this is the first letter I can remember writing. Obviously, I don't know if I wrote any before the Maze. But, even if it's not my first, it's likely to be my last._
> 
> _I want you to know that I'm not scared. Well, not of dying anyway, it's more forgetting. It's_ losing _myself to this virus,_ that's _what scares me._
> 
> _So every night I've been saying their names out loud._ Alby, Winston, Chuck _._
> 
> _And I just repeat them over and over like a prayer, and it all comes flooding back. Just the little things like when the sun used to hit the Glade at that perfect moment right before it slipped beneath the walls. And I remember the taste of Frypan's stew. I never thought I'd miss that stuff so much._
> 
> _And I remember you._
> 
> _I remember the first time you came up in the box, just a scared little Greenie, who couldn't even remember his own name._
> 
> _But from that moment you ran into the Maze, I knew I would follow you anywhere. And I have. We all have._
> 
> _If I could do it all over again, I would. And I wouldn't change a thing._
> 
> _My hope for_ you _is when you're looking back, years from now, you'll be able to say the same._
> 
> _The future is in your hands now, Tommy. And I know you'll find a way to do what's right. You always have._
> 
> _Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy._
> 
> _Thank you for being my friend._
> 
> _Goodbye, mate._  

Thomas didn't know when his vision got blurry but _his_ voice remained clear, as if he was sitting right there across from Thomas, reading the words to him himself.

He let his words wash over him, let them completely flood his senses and he found himself, once again, wanting to drown in everything that was left for him.

He allowed himself to revel in that sensation, but only for a few, albeit drawn out, moments. The tightness in his throat began to hurt and his face felt too hot. He let his eyes fall shut and let the tears stream down his cheeks. His breathing stuttered a bit but it came easier than all these months before.

He let himself mourn his best friend who had done everything he could for him. Who still did. So who was he to now refuse what he had asked of him.

Thomas opened his eyes and looked towards his friends huddled around the fire and talking among themselves. Glancing down at his words, he tried to swallow down the guilt and denial they evoked within himself, because he had to do this for him, he wanted to follow his lead.

( _Take care of everyone for me. And take care of yourself. You deserve to be happy._ )

One step at a time, maybe. That he could do, he reckoned.

His fingertips traced the ink of the last four letters and lingered there for a few heartbeats.

Steadily, Thomas began folding the paper again and rolled it up as neatly and carefully as he could so that it may fit back into its capsule. It was kind of tricky but after one or two tries, he did finally manage it. With the cap safely put back on, he placed the cord around his neck once again.

He felt its familiar weight settled back against his chest, but now it just... felt like _more_.

More intense, more personal.

 _More like him_.

When he made his way towards his friends he saw Minho getting up before spotting him and deciding to meet him halfway.

“You okay?” he asked with worried eyes as soon as they were close enough.

“Yeah, yeah...,” Thomas cleared his throat a bit and nodded slightly in the direction of the big open construction where most of them usually went to bed, “you uhm... you got room there for one more tonight?”

The smile his friend gave him was tinged with surprise and tentative happiness: “Yeah, man.”

“Thanks.” His own smile felt the tiniest bit easier this time around. “I'm uh, gonna go, take a walk. But uh, I'll join you... in a bit, yeah?”

“Good that.”

Thomas ducked his head and walked closer to the water. Walking along the shore had never felt this peaceful to him, he thought.

He didn't fool himself to expect it would ever be easy, how could it be. His heart was too heavy to ever forget what it cost him to get where he was now. He could never let _him_ get lost in memory, because he had deserved to be right here with them; because he had always cared more about everyone else than himself.

Thomas knew he could never be able to not feel his absence, and he didn't want to. He never wanted to forget.

Coming to a halt, he looked out at the calm sea. Minho's words from one of the first nights came to his mind then: “This is gonna be a good home for us.” And yeah, it was going to be; for all of them.

Before turning around to walk back to where his friends were getting ready to go to bed soon, he took a few deep breaths, his hand clutched around the necklace. Despite the ever present lump in his throat his voice was steady.

“Alby... Winston... Chuck...,” he murmured. “...Teresa.”

Thomas glanced at the pendant in his hand once more before raising it to his lips. “Newt.”

The salty air around him and the metallic scent on his lips filled his lungs and he closed his eyes.

_Newt Newt Newt Newt Newt..._

 

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 9/1/2018
> 
> finally got around to brush this thing up a bit but dw, i only corrected some grammar mistakes & changed a few words around, but there are no major changes
> 
> thank you so much for reading this! and i'm so sorry my anxiety gets the best of me so that i never manage to reply to comments but know that i have read them & appreciate them sm, they made me feel like i didn't waste my time on writing this after all! :D
> 
> <3


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